


LEARNING CURVE

by thoughtsdemise



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Mech/Mech, Mentor/Student, Out of Character, Sleazy Naiveté, Squeaker Content, Valve Eating/Licking, Valve Fingering, sticky smut, tactile play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9818615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsdemise/pseuds/thoughtsdemise
Summary: “See a need; fill a need.”  Oh yes and hopefully with several pounding rotating machines.  You can quote Ratchet on that one too.





	

Pharma backs up into the hallway letting the door slip closed.  He resets his optics several times before considering the closed door in front of him.  He leans against the wall and covers his mouth with his hand to hide the nervous flick of his glossa over his lips.  He tries to settle his systems to their normal temperature.  He bites at his lip as one hand traces along his thigh.  Pharma’s wings shiver and clack against the wall which he pushes himself off of with a steadying huff-puff of vents.  He taps in the access code again before gazing at the scene in the room.

Ratchet glances over the edge of a data-pad at Pharma.  The pad taps his chin as he leans back on one hand, sweeping the new medic from helm to ped.  “You wear your crosses well, Pharma,” he purrs over the name and smirks at the stiffening frame.  Blue optics concentrate on and trace over the flickering wings.  He licks the corner of his mouth catching the data-pad with his tongue in that slow lick.  He places the pad beside him on his desk and kicks out at a chair in a silent command to sit as he brings that heel to rest on the edge of the desk.

The younger medic steadies his frame with a calming cycling of his fans.  He brutally shuts down any remaining memory bursts of the last time he was in this office splayed on that desk that his mentor sits so casually on.  The pleasure centers of his processors key up and try to filter lust into his field.  “Thank you, sir.”  He touches the crosses on his shoulders trying for a cloak of professionalism.  His fingers pick unconsciously at his thigh plating, hoping that the small trickle of lubricant flowing in his valve was not noticeable as he shifts to get comfortable.

“Ratchet.”

“Sir?”

A softer smile and a gimlet optic meet the flyer’s gaze as Ratchet spreads his thighs to support more of his weight.  “You can call me Ratchet now.”  Pharma peeks at Ratchet with a small bashful smile but intakes sharply at what the older medic adds, “Of course I’d like you to scream it too when I’m done licking you clean.”

Pharma spits static in an aroused outrage.  “Ratchet…sir, I think that is--” The flyer stops his tirade when the grounder waves his hand dismissively and settles it on his upraised knee.

Ratchet tracks his fingers sensuously along his own thigh to his open and waiting valve.  He cannot stop the chuckle at the surprised whirl from a turbine engine.  The grounder smooths over the rim a few times before dipping in shallowly to dry out some lubricant that had pooled at the entrance.  It patters over his red-white plating as his coated fingers touch his lips.  Ratchet paints over them before flicking his glossa over them.

Pharma trembles and tries not to stare at his mentor.  But it’s rather hard, what with Ratchet sitting on top of his desk fingering his own valve again and looking at the flyer expectantly.  The younger medic’s wings arch and flutter in a cataleptic invitation to touch.  He grasps his thighs hard to keep from reaching forward though he glances at the older medic from a lateral optic sensor, watching as red fingers travel the edge of the valve before sinking into the port shallowly.

The shuff of shifting plates and the slurp of lubricant coated fingers draws the reluctant gaze back to where the grounder medic wants it to be.  In reward for Pharma’s full attention, Ratchet leans forward to thumb along Pharma’s lips, pushing inside to stroke the flyer’s glossa.  Ratchet’s engine gives a deep rumble of pleasure as Pharma sucks on the invading thumb.  Blue fingers brush over a red arm in a slight pet.

The older mech scoots off his desk to stand before the other and pushes his thumb deeper into the caress of the glossa.  “Mmmmm.  Much better than I expected,” he thrums as he pops his thumb out to stroke at Pharma’s chin.  He presses his helm against the other mech’s and nuzzles in a whisper, “I wonder how much you’d like the take of fluids.”

Ratchet strokes his coated fingers over Pharma’s glossa after the flyer had gasped widely at the charged question.  Blue-white arms pinwheel as the younger mech jerks sharply backward away from the red warm frame.  He poofs out in a small surprised pain as his helm smacks the floor, the chair tumbling with him.  He stares wide-opticed up at his once mentor who smiles widely at him.  The older medic kneels while leaning his chin on his arms.  Red arms rest along the upturned seat between Pharma’s splayed knees stilling any efforts made to rise.

“Much better than I expected yes, but still has such a steep learning curve I see.”  He freely eyes the flyer’s pelvic array and churr pleasantly when he notices the wet edges of the valve cover and hears the soft tink of a cord against its cover.  Red fingers reach to swipe twice over the sealed valve cover before pressing in steadily.  Ratchet’s optics deepen as his former student gasps and arches his spinal strut the red helm digging into the floor.  He exvents warm air over the flyer’s sensitive pelvic array as blue-white hips move in a jerking dance.

“Wanna open up for me, sugar-sweet, so I can drink from that fountain?”

Both interfacing covers snap aside as Pharma’s engine spins in a growing whine.  Ratchet lifts the flyer’s legs and strokes his thumbs in the cables at the back of Pharma’s knees.  He tugs the younger mech’s hips up to a more accessible position.  Pharma’s helm rests on the cushioned back of the chair and his blue fingers wrap securely around the upturned seat’s edge.  Ratchet smiles down at Pharma, enjoying the aroused roll in the flyer’s optics.  He settles blue thighs on his shoulders before petting jumping abdominal plating in a comforting gesture.

“Don’t go boom before I’ve had myself a nice long drink, okay?”

“Gck,” is the answering lace of static.

One red finger circles the outer folds of the now cycling valve.  Roundabout it goes, brushing over the folds, sensors and anterior node in a light playful fondle.  Ratchet tucks his chassis snugly against Pharma’s hips and the bottom of the chair’s seat.  He thrums his engine in a deep bass to Pharma’s higher tenor turbine.  He kisses the base of the flyer’s cord while continuing to circle the outside of the valve.  He strokes abdominal plating in calming caress before pushing deeply into the plates and wires there.

“P…ase…i…side…deeper!  Ah no!”

Pharma grunts and tries to rise when Ratchet stops all of his movement.  The older medic scratches along Pharma’s stomach platelets, grinning down at the incoherent mouth movements.  He licks a short swipe along the underside of the pressurized erection.  The petting red finger draws away to be replaced by an open mouth and a thrusting glossa that drives deep.  Ratchet curls blue hips forward so that he can drink the lubricants as they squeeze from the pulsing valve.

The small overload zings through Pharma’s systems.  He prattles and begs for more in incoherence.  Ratchet answers by pulling away to rub his face around in the sticky mess with a rolling purr from his vocalizer and deep vibrating rumble from his engine.  He seals his lips over the valve and draws in deep vents.  The younger medic loses himself in the resulting overload, going comfortably lax in Ratchet’s grip.

When he cycled up again, Pharma stares at the ceiling.  Huffs at the remaining charge titillating up and down his frame.  He shifts and catches the slick sounds of lubricant with his audios.  He looks at Ratchet who leans against his desk, digging his own fingers quickly in and out of his valve with shuttered optics.  A sticky mess covers the older mech’s face and upper chest.

Pharma pulls himself waveringly to his feet.  He stumbles over to Ratchet and stills the almost impatient movement of red fingers.  Ratchet’s optics snap open as he growls in warning.  The younger mech leans his helm against a shoulder to reset his spinning gyros for a moment.  He tugs forcefully on Ratchet’s wrist, drawing the fingers out of the valve.  He quickly replaces them with his own.  Red fingers hook into Pharma’s valve as the flyer presses down a thick thigh to rub its length.

Flyer and grounder frames scrape softly against each other in a slowly dawning desperation.  Pharma rubs his facial derma through the mess on Ratchet’s.  Condensation collects on hot plating as valves pulse and strain.  The slow burr of metal sliding against metal echoes the slick squelch of lubricants and transfluids that dance with a building charge.

“Mu…much better…ha!...sssugarr-sweet,” Ratchet gasps out in a dying warble and thrum.

Pharma smiles and presses his crest to Ratchet’s.  “Huh…you’re just only learning that now, Teacher?”  Pharma spins his turbine higher.  “Gonna…gonna have to educate you further.”  A cheeky smile purrs over Pharma lips as he moves his frame against the grounder in a rolling wave.


End file.
